


Her Name Was Spelled With Love

by Megane



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Hints of other characters, I Suppose Right Let’s Tag It, Introspection, Playing with Imagery, Poetic, Prose Poem, Short & Sweet, Spoilers, Synaesthesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megane/pseuds/Megane
Summary: Cloud liked to remember Aerith; he liked to think about the type of person she was. And today was one of those days when he let himself sink in her memory.
Relationships: Aerith Gainsborough & Cloud Strife
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Her Name Was Spelled With Love

Back in Nibelheim, they were called “fireflies” — little creatures that danced in the night, their bodies carrying sparks of light wherever they went. They were said to be the souls of the dearly departed come to bring good luck; there were even stories about how they carried little messages, good omens, and tidings of peace.

In Gongaga, Zack once told him, they were called “lightning bugs” because sometimes their lights would flare up all at once, leaving a dazzling image behind. They weren’t harmful by any means, but they left one feeling awe-struck with such a simple beauty. It was hard to argue with the calmness a lightning bug could bring in spite of their powerful names.

But out here in Midgar, it seemed they called her Aerith. She was lightning in a bottle, an embodiment of sunshine, a personality of sun and storm. She was crafted by the Planet, the last of her kind, but she shone with the beauty of a thousand Cetras. Maybe more. A hundred thousand fireflies and lightning bugs made up the one called Aerith.

She was a timeless kind of pretty, the kind that Cloud used to see in old movies that he watched with his mother. She could have been someone’s muse in ages past — a face captured in decades of portraits, forever etched into the visages of murals. But she was his muse now, had been from the moment they met and still was long after she was gone. To Cloud, she was red and white, passion and simplicity. She was pink, soft and comforting. She was fields of green and yellow and blue — a world he had never seen even despite all he had been through.

It was hard to explain what their connection had been. In many ways, there were lines never crossed, secrets never learned, boundaries never toed. They were friends; they were family — they were strangers in a large part. But they and the others heralded the salvation of the world. Cloud through force of his own will, her through sacrifices untold.

She wasn’t an angel because to him the term was never sweet.

An “angel” was stark, ominous, foreboding. Angels were swaths of grey and gold, burning white hot, made of ash and steel. He couldn’t call her a “saviour” because he hated the term himself. A saviour was made through miracles, was preordained and destined to suffer. A saviour was a myth, a martyr, a man-made ideal. A saviour was an excuse to shunt the burden onto someone else.

Aerith was no angel; she was no saviour. She was as flawed and as humble as the rest of them. She was a picture in an old wooden frame. A rare sight that could never be captured on film, a sight for the present and the present alone. She was a cherished memory.

Even in her death, she was a survivor. A reminder to do what was right even when it was hard. She was courage — sprouts of green in concrete grey. She was a flower on the sidewalk, a bird’s nest on the roof. She was life itself and how it moved on and on; she was the healing rain, the last sigh before a long rest.

To Cloud, she was a rainbow shade; she was the guiding force to push him forward. She was the next step when he wanted to fall. She was the strength that kept his knees from going weak. She was more than a memory. She was history; she was the future.

She was a beauty that ran past the flesh, bleeding into the world around him. She was the sunrise, the sunset. She was the gratitude in Cloud’s chest, the balm to his aching heart.

Very simply, she was Aerith, a firefly of Migdar, a lightning bug of Cetras.


End file.
